Fragments: Jetlag
by Jaz22
Summary: Gibbs is feeling a bit out-of-sorts after his little run-in at the end of the episode. Now updated to include a follow-up chapter from Tony's POV. And just for kicks and giggles, I added one from McGee as well.
1. Chapter 1

"_Did you, uh, did you hit your shoulder?" (McGee)_

"_No, the car did, McGee." (Gibbs)_

**Fragments: After the Fall**

By Jaz

'_Jetlag' Episode Summary: Tony and Ziva are sent to Paris provide security and Stateside escort for a witness in a Navy embezzlement case. In one of those wonderful coincidences that Gibbs doesn't believe in, he and McGee are called to the scene of a dead marine, who just happens to be a killer for hire who just happens to have been contracted to kill their returning witness. As Tony and Ziva save the young woman's life mid-flight (she was nearly dispatched by a peanutty pillow, which triggered anaphylactic shock), Gibbs and McGee head out to interrogate the man she's testifying against. Discovering the contract was actually put out by the young woman's fiancé, they chase him to a parking garage and attempt to put a human barrier in the path of his oncoming vehicle. At the last second, Gibbs pushes McGee out of the way, saving his life but getting hit by the car himself. (It's okay - he hit the car back.) Bad guys (and even badder flight attendants) are captured, the witness survives to testify, and Gibbs gets a boo-boo._

Disclaimer: The characters (sadly) aren't mine, and no profit (also sadly) is being made.

~0~

Gibbs sat on the gurney, waiting, the starch white sheets crinkling beneath him, the ridiculous Johnny-coat doing nothing to keep him warm. He refused to think about the fact that he was cold, that he'd been cold since the moment they cut off his T-shirt. Not his jacket, though. Damned if he was going to let them cut that, no matter how much it hurt to get his arm out of the sleeve. The nurse, the little blond one, she'd almost taken him to task, but in the end he'd won that round, and she'd helped him remove it, lying it carefully on the chair beside him, all the while muttering to herself that if he'd come in the ambulance, he wouldn't have been given the choice to salvage his clothing.

But he hadn't come in the ambulance. He'd driven himself, one handed, once the scene had been secured and the ambulance had taken Sturgis away. McGee had offered to take him, but Gibbs needed his junior agent on the ambulance, escorting the man behind the assassination attempt on their witness. Besides, the last thing Gibbs wanted was McGee hovering around him as they waited interminable hours for something that could be fixed in minutes under the right circumstances. Leroy Jethro Gibbs might be a bastard at the best of times, but with the way he was feeling at the moment, he knew that designation would be a step up.

He hated hospitals. Always had. Hated them enough that over the years he'd taken to having Ducky patch him up when the need arose, which fortunately wasn't very often. But the call to Ducky hadn't gone as planned when the elderly medical examiner had refused to take care of this incident before him. _'Sounds dislocated, __Jethro__,' he'd said. _Like that was something Gibbs didn't already know. _'You'll need X-rays to double check for fractures, then there's reduction, possible surgery. . . no, I think it's best you get this treated at the hospital.'_ Ducky had offered to come sit with him, give him a ride home, but Gibbs had refused for the same reasons he didn't want McGee here.

Used to be, hospitals didn't bother him as much. He hadn't really spent a whole lot of time in them, at least not for himself – for DiNozzo, now, that was another story. But after the explosion, and the coma, and that whole damn time that had followed where the world as he'd known it had suddenly ceased to exist and he was forced to accept a life that he had no memory of, that he never felt he could claim as his own – well, his perception of the sterile rooms with the soothing light blue walls had been skewed until all he could feel was that same uncertainty, that life never came with any guarantees, and that sometimes it was just too damn short.

He was getting too damn old for this. And that was something he sure as hell didn't want to admit to anyone. Not even himself.

He should be feeling lucky. There were no fractures, no need for surgery. He'd opted for the local anesthesia for the reduction, and was just waiting now for them to come back with the second set of X-rays, confirming all was back where it should be. Once they immobilized it in the sling, he could get the hell out of here. He should be grateful it was a simple fix, a few weeks in a sling, maybe some physical therapy, nothing too major. He should be grateful McGee was okay; that they'd figured everything out; that the perpetrator was going to live long enough to face trial; that two hired killers were no longer able to offer their services; that their witness was securely ensconced in the safe-house awaiting the chance to offer her testimony.

He should be a lot of things. But really, he was just cold.

The doctor returned, and Gibbs listened with half an ear to things he already knew. He sat complacently as they immobilized his arm, grateful he'd worn the button down shirt instead of the polo, something else he'd refused to let them cut off, so at least he could have something to wear home. In less than half an hour, he found himself signed out and behind the wheel even though he knew he probably shouldn't be driving. He headed home on auto-pilot to his empty house and tried not to think about how he was well on his way to becoming exactly what he never wanted – a bitter, lonely old man.

Most days, it didn't bother him, but some days it felt as if he were on a downhill slide. He didn't spend a lot of time looking in the mirror, so the effects of time weren't as obvious to him. Not that he cared a lot about his appearance, but he'd been young when he started to go gray, and now mirrors only served to remind him that he wasn't thirty-five anymore. Abby had more than once told him the gray looked good on him, calling him her 'silver-haired fox', and while Gibbs appreciated the thought, it didn't help him on days like these, days when he was reminded that being young at heart doesn't really help in his line of work. Days when everything hurt, and he was forced to face the fact that maybe he couldn't keep doing this forever. And if he didn't have his job, his team, his quest for justice, than what the hell did he have? The beach in Mexico hadn't worked out as well as he'd hoped.

He walked into his home, shrugging off the jacket, determined to shrug off the self-pity he'd been wallowing in as well. It wasn't his style, not really. He usually hated it when he let himself get into this mood. Some days, though, it felt almost good to give in to it a little.

He lit the fire that was already laid in the fireplace and stood by as it came to life, relaxing slightly as some of the warmth finally penetrated the chill. When it was ready, he pulled the steak out of the fridge and tossed it on the grill, grabbing himself a beer. He hesitated before pulling off the cap, ignoring the ache he felt in his shoulder that told him using his arm right now for anything was a really bad idea, the need for the beer outweighing common sense. Making his way to the bedroom, he changed into sweats with considerably more effort than it usually took, foregoing the T-shirt in favor of the button down he still wore. Tomorrow would be soon enough to worry about wearing normal clothes.

He headed back into the living room and placed his gun in the box on the bookshelf, trying not to sigh. It would be a while before he'd be using that again, and he hated the feeling of not carrying, even if only for a few days. He flipped the steak, before dropping onto the couch and closing his eyes. It would be easy to just allow himself to put an end to this miserable day and drift off, and he did for a few moments. The stillness around him only accentuated the emptiness of his life. He'd gotten used to it over the years, but he'd never gotten to like it. This house had been made to be filled with the sounds of conversation, of the daily act of living, but now it was too damn quiet. He flipped on the television, turning on the news just to drown out the silence.

He grabbed the fillet off the grill, pleased to see it cooked just as he liked it, and thought back to the last time he'd had steak, sharing the meal with DiNozzo. The time surrounding the visit from Tony's dad had left the young agent somewhat adrift, but Gibbs was pleased to see he'd come through it okay. The chat Gibbs had with DiNozzo Sr. had been necessary, and he was glad he'd taken the time to do so. The man should know how lucky he was to have a son like Tony. He should know the kind of man Tony had become, the kind of agent he was. He should know it wasn't too late to get to know his son.

Gibbs knew a thing or two about being too late. He'd hated having to share his daughter's existence with that sorry son of a bitch, but he'd done it for Tony's sake. Putting aside his own pain was easy enough when he thought of all the crap Tony must have had to deal with growing up in the shadow of Anthony DiNozzo, Senior. There had only been hints dropped over the years – military school, reports rattled off to his father over the old man's glass of scotch, being cut off from his parent's money. Years of neglect that in Gibbs' mind were just as criminal as physical abuse. It was easy to see that the relationship shared by the two DiNozzo's would never have the ease of most father/son bonds. All that mattered to Gibbs was how Tony felt about that.

The conversation he and Tony had shared over that meal had left him in no doubt that the younger DiNozzo knew exactly what kind of man his father was. And Gibbs had been prepared to help him with the disappointment that knowledge would bring, but Tony had surprised him. There was no evidence that his senior field agent was distressed over his father's continued evasiveness regarding his lifestyle, no indication that Tony truly expected anything better from him. Gibbs thought back on the conversation they'd shared after the meal had finished.

"_He told me he loved me." The quiet comment had come out of the blue as they had sat on the couch, nursing their beers, and Gibbs stopped mid-swig, turning to look at the other man, trying to hide the disbelief that by all rights should have been obvious on his face. He'd talked with DiNozzo Senior, hell yeah, but he'd never thought it had made much of an impression. Certainly not enough that the old con artist would lay that on Tony._

_Gibbs finished swallowing, allowing a moment to get his mind in gear. "Yeah__?" was all he prompted._

_Tony sat silent on the couch, and Gibbs began to think he shouldn't have said anything, but still he waited. It wasn't too long before weary green eyes looked up from the bottle Tony held in both hands. "When I was a kid, I used to wonder about that. He never said it, you know? And I used to think, if only he told me he loved me, then none of the other stuff would matter. It wouldn't matter that he never spent time with me, never came to any of my games, never wanted to know anything about what was going on in my life unless it reflected on him. It wouldn't matter that he shuffled me off to whatever school or relative was willing to take me at the time. Because if he said he loved me, then it had to be true, right?"_

_Gibbs waited, unwilling to say anything that might keep DiNozzo from finishing his train of thought. They never talked about things like this. Tony was nearly as closed-mouthed as he was himself, using distraction, smoke and mirrors to deflect anyone from knowing what he really felt__, from anything that might reveal the real Tony __DiNozzo__, hiding behind the mask of a clown. The fact that he was willing to share now, with Gibbs, spoke more of his trust in Gibbs and their friendship than the constant __blind faith Tony demonstrated in their daily working together._

"_Now, though . . . I don't know. Hearing it didn't seem to make any difference. Words are easy, you know? He was lying to me the entire time he was here, __hell,__ he's been lying to me for years. Telling me he cared was just one more to add to the pile. It didn't mean what I always thought it would."_

"_You sure?" Gibbs had asked, not that he really believed any differently. He doubted the elder DiNozzo was even capable of the emotion, at least not for anyone other than himself. Still, if it would give Tony something he'd spent his entire life wishing for, maybe believing the words wouldn't be such a bad thing._

"_Oh, yeah," Tony replied, confidence easily heard in his tone. "I'm sure. Funny thing is, it doesn't really matter. Not anymore. I used to think nothing would be more important than knowing I was worth s__omething to him. But now . . ." he shifted restlessly, avoiding Gibbs' gaze, obviously uncomfortable in this rare moment of honest insight. "I think I'm okay whether or not my father gives a damn. I me__an, I've got Abby, McGee, __Ziva__ . . . " the 'you' remained unspoken, but the older man heard it just the same, "__I know they give a damn, that I'm worth something to them. That's all that matters to me."_

Gibbs pulled the now cooked steak off the grill with his left hand, slapping it onto the waiting plate. He could relate to that. If he were in a mood to admit it to himself, which he wasn't, he'd say that was a good part of what was eating at him now. The feeling that nobody really gave a damn. Oh, he knew he mattered in the grand scheme of things. Knew that he was good at his job, and that the agency was better off with him there; knew that his team cared about him, as much as he'd allow them to. Knew his father would make the drive up to stay and help him out in a heartbeat if he called. But it still didn't stop him from coming home to an empty house.

And, he realized in disgust, it didn't stop him from sitting there with a perfectly done steak that he didn't have a hope in hell of being able to cut up and eat. He tossed the plate roughly on the coffee table and sat back again, debating whether it was worth calling out for pizza, when he heard the front door open.

The sense of déjà vu was emphasized when DiNozzo came around the corner, laying his jacket casually over the back of the chair. Instead of beer, he carried a small white paper bag, which he tossed in Gibbs' general direction. The older man caught it one handed, giving his senior field agent a look that managed to be both curious and annoyed.

"Ducky figured you wouldn't bother to stop for your pain meds, so he called in a script for you. Picked it up on my way over." He clapped his hands, rubbing them together in anticipation. "Looks like I got here just in time." He reached for the plate, pulling out his knife and cutting the steak in half. There was no extra plate this time, evidence that Gibbs hadn't been planning on company, but that didn't deter him. Tony pushed one half to the side, ignoring it, while he concentrated on cutting up the remaining meat into small, manageable pieces. Once that was done, he walked into the kitchen, grabbing a beer and a plate. He walked back to the couch, spearing the remaining half of the steak, subtly leaving the plate with the cut up pieces in front of Gibbs.

"Good thing I got here when I did, or were you planning on gnawing on that caveman style?"

"What the hell are you doing here, DiNozzo?"

Gibbs growl, as per usual, didn't faze the younger man.

"I lost the coin toss? Drew the short straw?" Tony suggested.

"Excuse me?"

"We figured someone needed to check up on you. Ziva's at the safe house with Nora. And Abby took McGee home with her to do the concussion checks."

Gibbs' head shot up at this statement. The youngest field agent on their team had seemed fine after Gibbs had pushed him out of the path of the oncoming car, though Gibbs had been in admittedly too much pain of his own to be certain McGee hadn't just been toughing it out. "McGee has a concussion?"

"Nah, probably not. Just a headache, really, and he probably wouldn't have said anything about it if I hadn't caught him riding the porcelain bus back at headquarters. Ducky checked him out, and thought it was more likely just delayed reaction from nearly getting the boss killed, but he figured it wouldn't hurt to have somebody stay with him, so Abby volunteered. Ducky would have come here himself, but he had to go home and let the dogs out."

Gibbs nodded. "Forgot he's still got those damn corgis. Too bad they couldn't have gone with his mother. She probably would prefer having them with her."

"I know Ducky would prefer it," Tony snickered.

Gibbs used his fork to stab a piece of steak, refusing to acknowledge the fact that Tony had cut it up for him. "Everything squared away at the office?"

Tony cut himself a piece of meat and popped it into his mouth, chewing quietly before speaking. "Nora's feeling much better. She's safe and sound with Ziva, who's got Agent Meyers backing her up. Sturgis is out of surgery - bullet's out and he's expected to make a full recovery. He's under guard at the hospital. Ducky checked Tim out when he came back and gave him a clean bill of health. Vance is smoothing things over with the Sec-Nav. So, yeah, I'd say everything's squared away."

"Good."

Gibbs continued to work through his meal, not bothering with conversation, giving half his attention to the television in the background. He knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that there had been no straw-drawing back at NCIS, that DiNozzo had not only volunteered to be the one to check on him, the younger man had probably managed to talk anyone else who was interested in the job out of it, and the emotion this thought garnered surprised him in its warmth. But he wasn't willing to embarrass either one of them by commenting on it.

Tony pushed his now-empty plate away from him and sat back into the couch, keeping the beer in hand. He looked over at Gibbs, an intense look crossing his features before it was carefully hidden. "So, how's the shoulder feel?"

Gibbs pushed away his own plate, glaring at his agent. "How the hell do you think it feels, DiNozzo?" he snapped, feeling angry all over again as he was reminded of his current weakness.

Tony said nothing, just continued to stare at him as if he were analyzing the other man, and the scrutiny made Gibbs feel surprisingly uncomfortable. It was apparent DiNozzo had something on his mind, and Gibbs was torn between wanting to know what was bothering him and wanting to feign ignorance. He opted for redirection. "How's your head?"

A look of confusion came over Tony's face. "My head?" he asked, unsure if he'd heard Gibbs correctly.

"When I talked to Ziva, she said you'd taken a roundhouse to the face that knocked you into the bulkhead." He reached over and grabbed DiNozzo's chin, rotating the man's head from side to side, looking for signs of bruising.

Tony endured the scrutiny patiently, knowing it was Gibbs' way. "I'm fine, Boss," he declared, looking the older man firmly in the eyes.

Gibbs gazed back at him neutrally, assessing the truth of the statement, before he sat back, satisfied. "Just wanted Ziva to do all the work, huh?"

Tony winked at him. "You know it."

Gibbs did know it. Despite DiNozzo's well-earned playboy reputation, Gibbs knew Tony had a deep respect for women that made it difficult for him to have to strike them, even in self-defense. Not that Tony would ever back down from doing the job if necessary, but Gibbs had long ago observed the agent's tendency to let Ziva handle the physical fighting or restraining needed with a female suspect. It was a perspective Gibbs agreed with, and one of the reasons he liked having a female agent on his team.

He sat back and watched Tony out of the corner of his eye, taking in again the agitated state. There seemed to be a boundless energy surrounding the man even on a normal day that made him seem younger than his years. Tonight, however, he was nearly bouncing off the walls, and Gibbs knew if he had any hopes of getting to bed at a decent hour, he needed to let DiNozzo have his say.

He sighed. "You want to tell me what's on your mind?" he asked reluctantly.

Tony looked at him sharply, but the surprise on his face was gone before it had even registered. Gibbs figured the younger man was finally getting used to the idea that the mind-reading trick that DiNozzo employed with Gibbs went both ways.

Tony put his beer down and sat forward, leaning his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands together tightly. "What the hell were you thinking?" he asked baldly.

Gibbs was mildly surprised by the tone of Tony's words. There was genuine anger there, but damned if he knew why. "When, exactly?" he attempted to clarify.

"When you stood in front of a moving vehicle thinking that would be enough to deter an escaping felon! Haven't you figured out yet that you're not infallible?"

There was a time when those words never would have escaped Tony DiNozzo's mouth. A time when he did indeed believe Leroy Jethro Gibbs possessed superhuman abilities and a sense of immortality. Gibbs couldn't decide if he was glad the younger man had caught on to the truth. On one hand, he missed those days of complete hero worship, even though he'd never admit that aloud. On the other hand, he knew Tony's changed view was a result of the other man's maturity. DiNozzo had grown up quite a bit over the years Gibbs had known him, even if not everyone took notice of that fact. Gibbs also knew that even if there was no longer blind worship, Tony still placed an inordinate amount of faith in his team leader.

Gibbs did his best to make sure it wasn't misplaced.

Still, he bristled slightly at the insinuation that his judgment wasn't reliable. "Never said I was, DiNozzo."

"Aren't you the one who always says actions speak louder than words?"

"The guy would have plowed McGee down in a heartbeat if I hadn't pushed him out of the way," he defended himself.

"McGee never would have been standing there if he hadn't taken his cue from you!"

Tony's voice had gotten insistently louder, and Gibbs gazed at him, bemused at his reaction. "Relax, Tony. I'm fine. Just a dislocated shoulder. Not a big deal," he placated.

Tony looked away, shaking his head. He was silent, an agitated thumb tapping a random rhythm against his thigh. Finally he looked back at Gibbs. "You don't get it, do you?"

Gibbs tried not to let his exasperation show. He kept his voice calm and steady. "Get what?"

DiNozzo took a deep breath. "That it makes a difference whether you're here or not," he said quietly. "That we need you around. The team, I mean. Abby, Ducky, McGee, Ziva - we all take our cues from you. And if something happens, and you're not there . . ."

"If something happens and I'm not there, then you'll step in and lead. Just the way I've taught you to. Just the way you've already shown you can," Gibbs affirmed him confidently.

"And if I don't want to?" Tony questioned him, capturing his gaze and holding on.

Gibbs gazed back unflinchingly. "You'll do it anyway. Because that's who you are. That's who _we_ are. It's where we belong." Even as he spoke the words, he felt the tension leaving his body. His job _was _where he belonged. It was his reason for being. And if he got to work with some amazing people along the way, people he cared about and who cared about him, so much the better. He reached out and tapped DiNozzo on the knee. "And I know you'll do a hell of a job."

Tony gave him a small smile, a look of honest pleasure on his face at the unexpected compliment, before he shook his head. "Still don't want to."

Gibbs snorted. "Good. Because I'm not planning on going anywhere anyway. Deal?"

DiNozzo nodded, before looking away, slightly uncomfortable.

Gibbs caught the look. "What now?"

"Listen, Boss, I just thought you should know . . ." he trailed off and stood suddenly, reaching for the plates, looking for all appearances as if he were about to beat a hasty retreat.

Gibbs shifted on the couch and jarred his shoulder painfully. Gritting his teeth, he said, "Spit it out, DiNozzo."

"I talked to Jack."

The blow-up wasn't unexpected, but Gibbs took perverse pleasure when DiNozzo still winced.

"Damn it, Tony, what the hell did you do that for?"

DiNozzo squared his shoulders and turned back to face his boss. "Would you have?"

"No!"

"Well, there you go. That's why I did."

"It's a dislocated shoulder. He didn't need to know."

"Need to? No, probably not. Want to? Different story."

"DiNozzo . . ." Gibbs warned.

"Look, you want to be pissed at me, fine. But Jack's your father, and he cares about what happens to you. And whether you want to admit it or not, you could use a hand around here for a few days. Now, I'm more than happy to be the one to stick around and tie your shoelaces for you, but I know he's still feeling a bit out of sorts, and it would probably do him a world of good to be able to come here and feel like he's helping you out. And I know you're too damn stubborn to see that as a good thing, but it is. For both of you."

Gibbs glared at the younger man. He'd known from the beginning that it would be a bad idea if DiNozzo ever got to meet his father. That was the exact reason he'd left Tony behind when he first went to Stillwater on that investigation last year. The younger agent had managed to get himself to town anyway on some flimsy excuse, and it had gone down exactly as Gibbs had feared. Jackson Gibbs had been every bit as interested in finding out more about Tony DiNozzo as Tony had been in finding out more about Gibbs' father. The two of them had hit it off like peas in a pod. The seal on the friendship had come as they were leaving, and Gibbs found Tony wearing one of his father's sweaters and looking like Christmas had come early.

Having finally met the senior DiNozzo, Gibbs could hardly begrudge Tony a friendship with his father, but it was damned awkward at times. This was one of them, and he didn't want to let go of the anger over the young man's meddling in his personal life. "It wasn't your call to make."

Tony smirked. "I never said I called him. He called me. I swear, that Gibbs' radar thing you've got going must be second generation, because it's like he knew something was up with you. All I did was give him the details so he wouldn't worry."

Gibbs unclipped his cell phone from his belt and glanced at the screen, noting the number of missed calls, and knowing that the majority of them were from his father. He sighed, realizing that whether he wanted to or not, he was going to have to call him back. He glared at DiNozzo, who grinned back at him unrepentantly.

"Just call him, Boss."

"I swear, DiNozzo . . ." Gibbs huffed, annoyed when the younger man merely laughed at him. "What?" he asked, narrowing his eyes.

Tony picked up the silverware and headed off to the kitchen, snickering. "Nothing. I just love to watch the way you regress the minute your father comes into the conversation. It's like getting to watch a teenaged Gibbs on streaming television."

"Watch it," Gibbs called out threateningly, but there was no real heat behind his words.

Tony was back a second later, still smiling. "Look at it this way. If you don't ask Jack, I have no doubt McGee would be more than happy to pitch in. What with him owing you his life and all."

Gibbs shuddered at the thought of McGee being the one to help him out, and decided he'd give his dad a call once he got settled upstairs.

"Not that he shouldn't feel that way," Tony continued. "I mean, I leave you in his care for two days, and he hands you back broken? Guess I haven't done such a good job training him after all."

Gibbs raised an eyebrow, indicating this conversation really needed to end, pleased when he saw DiNozzo once again tune in to what he was thinking.

"Shutting up, Boss."

Tony walked back over to the couch, looking down at the still seated Gibbs. "You take one of those painkillers yet?"

Gibbs glared at him and grabbed the bottle with the childproof cap. He stared at it before handing it grudgingly to DiNozzo. "Not a word."

"Not a word, Boss," Tony confirmed. He opened it and shook out two pills, handing them to Gibbs who popped them in his mouth and washed them down with his last swallow of beer.

"Not sure that's what they had in mind when they said not to mix the painkillers with alcohol."

Gibbs glare intensified.

"But I'm sure that was really more of a guideline than a rule," Tony hastily amended. He waited as the older man got to his feet. "I'll follow you up and help you get ready for bed," he offered, knowing Gibbs would never ask.

Gibbs bit back a sigh. He would be glad to see this day end. He slowly trudged towards the stairs, turning back at the bottom step. "DiNozzo?" he called.

"No need to thank me," the younger man assured.

"I was going to say, you breathe one word to anyone about putting me to bed tonight, and I'll fire your butt so fast your head will spin." He knew Tony had gotten the real message when the younger man grinned back at him.

"You're welcome, Boss."

~0~


	2. Chapter 2

**Fragments: After the Fall (Tony)**

By Jaz

A/N: - Here, as I sorta promised, is a look at after the episode from Tony's POV. Unfortunately, Tony being Tony, he was rather reluctant to share his thoughts with me. Hope you all enjoy it anyway.

~0~

Tony's thumb unconsciously tapped out a rhythm against the steering wheel in time with the music coming from the radio. He wasn't really listening to the song, but the energy in his system needed to bleed off somewhere, and being stuck in traffic meant he couldn't hit the bag or go for a run. Though it seemed like running to his destination might be faster, and it was only with great restraint that he kept himself from laying a hand on the horn, an action that would prove both futile and annoying.

He had no doubt that if Gibbs were here, he'd have found a way around the traffic by now, and though Tony had picked up plenty in the years he'd been Gibbs' Padawan learner, he had no desire to emulate the other man's driving skills. And they were skills, despite the haphazard and often reckless appearance. It had only taken Tony a week or two back in the beginning to place his ultimate faith in Gibbs, even in his driving, and these days, it wasn't unusual to find him nodding off as Gibbs drove them to whatever crime scene they were heading to at the time, something that tended to drive McGee just a little bit nuts. A definite side benefit.

That ultimate faith had taken just a bit of a hit when he and Ziva had returned from Paris to find that their fearless leader had managed to land himself in the Emergency Department. And while it was true that Tony seemed a little more prone to injuries on the job than most, especially concussions, he hardly held the market on them. No matter how you looked at it, what Gibbs had done was stupid. He should've known better than to stand in the path of an oncoming car when the driver had nothing to lose. Because no matter how much Tony might wish it to be true, he knew his team leader was not immortal.

He couldn't help but feel that things would have been different if he hadn't been stuck on that plane with Ziva and their witness. Even if Gibbs still thought of himself as an island, a big, bad marine that nobody would mess with, Tony knew everything just worked better if he had his boss's six. Yeah, the Probie had come a long way in the last few years, but apparently, he didn't have what it took after all. Because this never would have happened on Tony's watch.

He could well imagine the scene as McGee had described it to him, picturing Gibbs and McGee firing away until the last second when Gibbs pushed Tim out of the way. It didn't even take much effort to imagine his boss rolling up onto the hood of the car, to hear the sickening thud of human flesh hitting uncompromising metal. It was not a happy thought, and Tony felt his jaw clench before he let out a breath purposefully, as if to push away the anger. Anger at himself for not being there, anger at McGee for not being smarter or quicker, anger at Gibbs for needing to be the hero once again, and just because he believed in equal opportunity, anger at Ziva. He wasn't sure why, exactly, but he felt pretty confident he could come up with something.

Tony worked on redirecting his thoughts as he lifted a hand and gingerly touched the area along his jaw that had recently come up close and personal with the lovely flight attendant-slash-hired gun's right foot. It smarted a little, but not much, and he allowed a small, dark grin. Definitely not a concussion-worthy kick, but it gave him the excuse he'd needed to step aside and let the little Israeli ninja chick come in and show off her stuff. Ziva lived for hand-to-hand combat and all but shoved Tony out of the way whenever a fight with a suspect broke out. In this case, Tony didn't mind. Never much liked hitting a woman anyway.

He saw a break in the traffic ahead, and switched lanes in an attempt to bypass the tractor-trailer he'd been stuck behind for the last twenty minutes. He'd elected himself to be the one to check on Gibbs once Ducky had come up to the bullpen and announced that the team leader wouldn't be returning to NCIS headquarters since he was tied up at the hospital. Funny, Gibbs had neglected to mention his injury when Tony had touched base with him once the plane had landed. Tony had managed to get the story out of McGee in between the younger agent's stops along the porcelain bus route – nothing like nearly killing the boss to make the head pain just that much worse, and Tony had almost felt a pang of sympathy. Almost.

The ringing of his cell phone pulled him out of his thoughts momentarily, and he checked the caller ID, smiling to himself as he reached in the ashtray for his Bluetooth and pushed it into his ear, pressing the button.

"Hey, Jack," he offered as a greeting.

"Tony! 'Bout time you picked up. Wasn't sure I'd get through to you – been trying to reach you for a while now."

"Sorry about that. Just got off a plane." He didn't offer any further explanation, surprised as always by the idea that the older man cared enough to call him about once a week. The feeling was more than mutual, and Tony made sure to check in with Jackson if it went too long between calls. This friendship he'd developed with Gibbs' father was unorthodox, to say the least, but Tony didn't have so many people in his life to count on that he was willing to sacrifice any. The fact that two of them at the top of his list came from the same family tree surely said something, but he was too tired and wound up at the moment to determine what. The sigh he tried to hold back was apparently louder than he thought.

"You sound beat. Everything okay?"

"Yeah, it's nothing, Jack. Just a long day. Long couple of days."

"What's my son gotten you into this time?" Jack asked knowingly.

Tony gave a genuine laugh. "Actually, he sent me to Paris. I should remember to thank him."

"Paris? You just getting back now?"

"A few hours ago. I think. Actually, I'm not even sure what day it is. What day is it?"

"Tuesday," Jack chuckled. "Got a little jetlag going?"

"Something like that," Tony agreed, not willing to admit it might have more to do with his head having been recently used for a kickboxing dummy. "So, to what do I own the pleasure of your call? Or are you just checking up on me again? I told you I'd get that sweater back to you eventually," he joked. He heard the other man huff out a laugh.

"And I told you I didn't want it back. Looks a lot better on you anyway. Listen, I'm not sure you can help me, Tony, if you just got into town. I'm trying to find Leroy, and he's not answering his phone. Again."

"And that surprises you?" Tony asked lightly.

This time there was no answering laugh. "No, it doesn't surprise me, but . . . something's not right. Not sure what, and I sure as hell can't explain it, but I can tell, just the same. Have you heard anything? Something happen to my boy that he's not telling me about?"

Tony slowed for the upcoming intersection as the light ahead went yellow, taking the time to think out his response. It wasn't really his place to tell the elder Gibbs what was going on with his son, but he could hear the obvious worry in the voice on the other end of the phone, and knew he'd have to at least give him the short version. "Gibbs is fine, Jack. I just spoke to him less than an hour ago. We've been working a case."

"Nothing new there," Jack grumbled, and Tony smiled at how much he sounded like his son. "Still, I had a bad feeling, and then, when Leroy didn't answer and didn't call me back . . ." he paused, and Tony could almost hear the wheels turning on the other end. "Something you're not telling me, DiNozzo?"

Tony sighed, and wondered briefly if interrogation was a skill that had been spliced into the Gibbs' gene pool. Something about that tone of voice made him just want to spill everything. "He really is fine. Yeah, there was a little – incident – while he was chasing down a suspect, and it earned him a trip to the ER, but he was treated and released. Nothing worse than a dislocated shoulder. I'm on my way to check up on him now."

He heard the silence coming through the cell phone and waited, wondering if Jackson was going to pump him for more details. He really thought those would be better coming from Gibbs, if only the agent could be counted on to actually talk to his father. Some days his team leader was even less functional as a mute than others, and they often seemed to occur whenever the other man's father was part of the equation.

Though the senior Gibbs was considerably more verbose, it seemed he was willing to let things go tonight, and Tony was glad there were no more questions. He was more than surprised by the words that came.

"You're a good boy, Tony, you know that? Don't ever let my son tell you different."

Tony smiled uncertainly, glad no one else was with him in the car to see the blush creeping up his neck. Compliments weren't something he had a lot of experience in – he still didn't quite know how to handle them.

Apparently Jack was aware of that, because he brushed right over the silence that had followed his remark. "You tell Leroy to give me a call, you hear? Soon as he's feeling up to it?"

Tony made the promise to pass the message along, and Jack chuckled again, knowing as Tony did that to promise his son would call might very well be lying. "That's the best I can ask for you to do. Thanks, Tony. And you get some sleep, young man. You take care of yourself, you hear?"

Tony's smile grew. The simple admonishment was a reminder that the older man cared, and that was something the young agent would never take for granted. "Always, Jack. Talk to you soon."

"I'll hold you to that," Jack replied before disconnecting the line.

By the time DiNozzo pulled his car to the curb in front of Gibbs' house fifteen minutes later, whatever warm feelings he'd had as a result of Jack's call had dissipated. The anger had returned, and seemed to have taken a firmer hold, and while he would have liked to say he didn't know where it was coming from, there was no point in lying to himself. He turned off the car and sat for a few minutes, pulling in several deep breaths. It was time to get his game face on. Gibbs didn't need to know what was going on in Tony's head.

He hopped out of the car and was halfway up the driveway before he turned back, grabbing the nearly forgotten white bag off the front passenger seat. He made his way into the unlocked house, toeing off his shoes by the front door, and peeling off his jacket, which he laid over the chair. Tossing the bag at Gibbs, he took in the scene, noticing the steak cooling on the coffee table, the older man sitting back against the couch, his arm in a sling and lines of pain etched on his features.

Tony's stomach gave a rumble at the sight of the steak, and he realized how hungry he was. Airline food was a misnomer if he'd ever heard one. He pulled out his knife and began cutting away, making some smart remark to ease Gibbs' embarrassment over not being able to do it himself. He refused to acknowledge the sense of déjà vu that came over him as he recalled the last time he'd eaten a meal with his boss, and the conversation that had occurred that night.

Gibbs, as expected, did little to make the younger man feel welcome, but Tony smiled inwardly at that. It was all part of the little game they played, and both of them were comfortable with their roles. Changing things now would upset the balance, and neither wanted that. He commented that he'd been the one elected to check on their injured leader, with no intention of letting the other man know he nearly had to beat Abby and Ducky off with a stick to keep them from taking Tony's place. And it was his place, he thought childishly. Taking care of Gibbs was part of his job description, and he took it seriously. Hell, he'd let him out of his sight for two days, and look what happened.

He knew better than to share that thought aloud.

He took the time to fill Gibbs in on the wrap up of the case over the half of the meal he'd helped himself to, injecting the report with just enough humor to make it a DiNozzo special, working hard to keep his anger over the situation from showing. It helped to see that Gibbs was going to be fine. He told himself that repeatedly as he went over the inane details, but he wasn't honestly sure it was helping. Seeing Gibbs sitting there when he'd first come in, staring blankly at a steak he couldn't cut, had rankled with Tony. Gibbs wasn't supposed to be – well, weak. And though Tony knew he wasn't, not really, anyway, it was too much of a reminder for him of how much he'd come to rely on the older man.

And God forbid, but the day might come when Gibbs wouldn't be here, and Tony sure as hell didn't want to be reminded of that.

The time Gibbs had left them all for Mexico had been sheer hell. Tony had done everything he could to keep it all together for the team, his team, the ones who had been left behind. For Abby and McGee and Ducky and Ziva, who were all hurting more than they could deal with over the departure of the great Leroy Jethro Gibbs. Who let Tony know in no uncertain terms that he wasn't Gibbs, and that no matter how hard he tried, he'd never live up, never be able to be to them what Gibbs was. And even though that knowledge had hurt more than he'd ever admit, he'd still done his best by them, given them everything he had just to keep them all from falling apart.

And if he gone home alone late each night to his empty apartment and quietly come apart at the seams - well, he was the only one who had to know about that.

He never wanted to go through that again.

He knew something had shown on his face at that thought, but he quickly worked to reassume the neutral mask he'd been wearing, hoping that Gibbs hadn't noticed, but not really fooling himself into believing it. He asked about the shoulder, and was momentarily surprised when Gibbs returned the question about his head. He should have known someone would fill in the agent on DiNozzo's minor injury. Gibbs liked to know whenever something happened to one of the members of his team, and he seemed to take what some might consider a very un-Gibbs-like interest in the health and well-being of all his agents. Perhaps DiNozzo most of all, though maybe it was just because Tony had earned the most frequent-flyer miles at Bethesda. Tony smiled when Gibbs' concern morphed into an unspoken acknowledgement of his tendency to allow Ziva to handle the cat-fighting, and he relaxed somewhat in the knowledge that the other man felt the same.

He sat up on the front edge of the armchair, his knee absently bouncing and his hands having a hard time keeping still. He rolled the beer bottle back and forth between his palms, mindless of the way that the liquid was sloshing around inside, and did his best to look anywhere at Gibbs, knowing it wouldn't take much before Gibbs zoomed in on his agitation.

He was right, of course, and the question from Gibbs was hardly a surprise.

"You want to tell me what's on your mind?"

The question drew Tony's eyes up sharply, and he fought with himself briefly, debating the wisdom of sharing what was currently churning around in the depths of his thoughts. The internal debate lasted only a few seconds, before the question he'd been dying to ask could no longer be denied, and he put the beer on the table with more force than necessary.

"What the hell were you thinking?" There was no finesse to the question, no attempt to hide the anger he'd been dealing with for the last few hours. He could see he'd surprised the older man.

"When, exactly?" Gibbs asked.

Tony all but threw up his hands in exasperation. "When you stood in front of a moving vehicle, thinking that would be enough to deter an escaping felon! Haven't you figured out yet that you're not infallible?" He bit his lower lip to keep himself from saying anything more than that. He'd already let slip more than he intended. He could see Gibbs was not happy with the implied accusation.

"Never said I was, DiNozzo," Gibbs grumbled, annoyed.

He'd never had to say it. "Aren't you the one who always says 'actions speak louder than words'?" Tony clamped down on the part of him that wanted Gibbs to answer that yes, he was infallible. That something as stupid as a car wouldn't be enough to take the former marine down. That he would be there, when the team needed him. When Tony needed him.

Gibbs eyes narrowed, not at all happy to have to be defending himself to the younger man. "The guy would have plowed McGee down in a heartbeat if I hadn't pushed him out of the way."

"McGee never would have been standing there if he hadn't taken his cue from you!"

Tony bristled at the amusement that shown in Gibbs' eyes as the other man made some comment about it not being a big deal, and it was all he could do not to reach over and throttle him by the throat. He took a deep breath, then another, as he tried to calm himself from the near shouting he'd been doing. He looked away, remaining silent, working to put his thoughts into words. He finally looked back at Gibbs.

"You don't get it, do you?" he said quietly.

"Get what?"

"That it makes a difference whether you're here or not. That we need you around. The team, I mean. Abby, Ducky, McGee, Ziva – we all take our cues from you. And if something happens, and you're not there . . ." Tony held back the words _'when I should have been watching your back.'_ The guilt from that, however misplaced, wasn't letting go of him easily.

"If something happens and I'm not there," Gibbs jumped in, "then you'll step in and lead. Just the way I've taught you to. Just the way you've already shown you can."

The quiet confidence acted as a balm to Tony's tired soul. The words meant more than they should, because of whom they came from. He'd spent years trying to live up to the standards Gibbs set, always afraid of failure, of not measuring up, of disappointing the one man whose good opinion meant everything to him. To know Gibbs felt he was ready and able to step in did wonders to reaffirm his fragile sense of self-worth. Still, though . . .

"And if I don't want to?" He had to ask. Had to know.

Gibbs' returning gaze was steady, holding Tony captive in the strength of his belief. "You'll do it anyway. Because that's who you are. That's who_ we_ are. It's where we belong." Gibbs paused for a moment, a half smile curving his lips. "And I know you'll do a hell of a job."

Those words were ones Tony lived for. He could admit that. Hearing them now was better than all the 'atta-boys' he'd received to date, and he felt the tension that had been inside him start to fade.

Gibbs thought he could do it. And Gibbs was never wrong.

He was pretty damn sure nothing else really mattered.

He gave a token protest anyway. "Still don't want to," he said, smiling when Gibbs laughed.

"Good. Because I'm not planning on going anywhere anyway," the older man replied, still holding his gaze. "Deal?"

Tony stared back at him, nodding. Life didn't come with any guarantees. He'd learned that the hard way, over and over again. He couldn't really ask for more than what Gibbs was offering. And it was a pretty good deal, when he thought about it. Feeling more relaxed now than he had since he'd first set foot aboard the flight to Paris, he leaned back and folded his arms behind his head.

The conversation he hadn't wanted to have had gone better than he expected. He could be thankful for that. And though it was still fairly early, he'd already made up his mind to stick around tonight. Gibbs' couch was more than comfortable enough, and the pillow was already there and waiting. It might take a little finagling, but he was pretty sure he could help out enough when the time came for the older man to head to bed.

Tony frowned momentarily, remembering something. Unpleasant though the thought may be, all he had to do now was break the news to Gibbs about Jack's call. He had no doubt the other man might be a trifle upset over what he would see as Tony's meddling, but he gave a little grin anyway.

Maybe Gibbs in a sling wasn't such a bad thing after all.


	3. Chapter 3

**Fragments: After the Fall (McGee)**

By Jaz

A/N: I really hope I'm not beating a dead horse by adding another chapter to this, but a few folks mentioned they'd like to see the story from McGee's side. Real life got in the way for a bit, but I finally came up with a small offering.

For Louise, because she asked so nicely.

~0~

McGee laid his head gently down on his extended arm where it lay wrapped around the toilet seat in the NCIS men's room. His knees were starting to protest the cold tile floor, but that was a small price to pay. His rebellious stomach was slowly beginning to settle. Not enough that he was ready to drag himself to his feet and go rinse out his mouth, but enough so that he began to think maybe the worst was over.

He'd never tell his co-workers, but he'd spent more than his fair share of time in this position during his college years. They'd only laugh, because it hadn't been due to excessive drinking – only excessive studying. He'd been extremely nervous back then, much more so than he had when he first joined Gibbs' team.

In fact, he'd changed so much in the five years since he'd moved to NCIS headquarters from Norfolk that he had little doubt that folks from the base there wouldn't even recognize him. As Tony had mentioned once or twice, McGee had 'grown a set'. Oddly enough, McGee took that as a compliment, and coming from DiNozzo, it was. Of course, it was due to the way Tony constantly rode him that caused McGee to finally step up to the plate anyway. Some days the bullpen definitely had a 'kill or be killed' attitude to it as they sought to outdo one another in the boss' eyes. For the most part though, McGee knew Tony didn't mean anything by his frequent jibes.

_Tony._ The mere thought of the man was enough to start his stomach rolling again. Oh, God, the man was never going to let McGee live this case down. Letting the boss get hurt on Tim's watch was something the senior field agent might never forgive him for. DiNozzo could flip from being Gibb's loyal Saint Bernard to being his rabid pit bull in a heartbeat. The senior field agent took it upon himself to ensure the team leader's safety, and even if it hadn't been part of his job description, Tim was pretty sure Tony would have done it naturally.

After all, it was obvious to anyone watching that Tony idolized the silver-haired agent. Tim had spent more than enough time watching Tony do his Gibbs impersonation after the boss retired to Mexico to know exactly who Tony wanted to be when he grew up. If he grew up. But Tony did hold the record as the only agent ever to last more than five years under Gibbs tutelage, a record he held to with pride. McGee had been rather proud himself when he tied Stan Burley's record a few months back, and he secretly looked forward to surpassing it. But Tony had already been with Gibbs for three years when Tim came on board. In fact, for a long time, it had been just Gibbs and Tony, when a string of other probies couldn't make the grade.

When the call had first come in a few days ago about the dead marine, Tim had been surprised that Gibbs apparently intended to work the case with just the two of them, since Tony and Ziva were jetting off to Paris. That surprise had quickly turned to delight as he realized his team leader was confident enough in McGee's ability to handle the increased work load. And though there had been a few periods of doubt along the way, Tim felt pretty good about the way he'd carried himself.

At least until the end.

His stomach gave another violent twist and he leaned forward, retching all over again as he tried not to think about how much worse it could have been than Gibbs walking away with a broken shoulder. If Tim hadn't been standing there, if the boss hadn't had to push him out of the way, Gibbs never would have gotten hurt. He wouldn't be sitting down at the hospital even now, having who knows what done to him. Gibbs hated hospitals. Gibbs hated being injured.

Gibbs was going to kill him. If Tony didn't do it first.

Tim heard the tap of footsteps on the tile floor of the bathroom. He hadn't noticed the sound of the opening door over the noise of his own making, and he held his breath, hoping foolishly that whoever it was would just go on their way without disturbing him. He knew that hope was in vain when a head full of dark hair and green eyes appeared in the open doorway of the stall. McGee groaned inwardly, wishing he could curl up an die. Anybody but Tony.

"Probie?" Tony said softly. "You okay?"

"Peachy, DiNozzo," he snapped, allowing his irritation to bleed through.

"Yeah, I can see that," Tony replied, stepping closer. "Guess I probably didn't need to ask, huh? If you were okay, I doubt you'd be in here tossing your cookies." He squatted down and leaned back on his heels. "What's going on?"

McGee sighed quietly and spit once more into the toilet before flushing. "Nothing. I'm fine. Just give me a few minutes."

"Take your time. You hurt?" Tony asked, reaching a hand towards Tim's head and lifting his chin to look into McGee's eyes.

The hand was surprisingly gentle as it moved to the side of his head, and Tim wasn't quite sure what to think. "No, not hurt," he replied. "At least, I don't think so. I might have hit my head when Gibbs pushed me out of the way," he trailed off, thinking. It kind of freaked him out when Tony was nice to him, and Tony was definitely being nice to him now. Unexpected.

"Yeah, I think you did. You got a bit of a bump here," he said, his fingers probing carefully. "Out, not in. That's good. You got a headache? Dizziness? Double vision?"

Tim leaned back against the metal wall and closed his eyes, scooting away from the john. If Tony wanted to think he was in here losing his dinner because of a head injury, that might be okay. Better than the alternative of him knowing it was nerves or guilt. He took the out Tony offered. "Little headache. No dizziness or double vision."

"And I guess I don't have to ask about the nausea. You're still looking a little green around the gills. C'mon, McPasty, let's get you down to Ducky."

Tim's eyes flew open. "What? No. Tony, I'm fine. Really. It's nothing," he cajoled.

"If it's nothing, then Gibbs will be happier hearing that diagnosis from Ducky than from either of us. Trust me on this, McGee. I've kind of got the whole 'getting hit in the head thing' down to a science.

Tim allowed a brief chuckle at that. "Truer words, Tony . . . " he replied, taking the hand offered to him by the older man. "Just give me a minute to rinse, okay?"

"Take your time." He leaned back against the sink and watched intently while McGee turned on the water.

Tim let the water run and splashed some on his face, relishing the coolness against his still heated skin.

Tony cleared his throat. "You want to tell me what happened?"

McGee stopped splashing to look up at him. "You mean other than me nearly getting the boss killed?"

DiNozzo merely raised an eyebrow in response, waiting before passing judgment on that statement.

McGee knew there wasn't much point in not telling Tony everything. He'd get it out of him eventually. The other man was a natural born investigator. Some might be tempted to just label it nosy, but deep down, Tim knew better. He sighed.

"We were in the office with Beringer, reading him his rights. There were a few folks gathered at the door. Beringer said he didn't put the hit out on Nora, and Gibbs must have believed him and put it together, because he took off after Sturgis, who had been watching but had disappeared. We followed him down to the parking garage, but Sturgis made it to his car. We pulled our weapons and started firing. The car kept coming straight at us. Sturgis never even slowed. He took a hit to the shoulder and must have lost control of the car, because the next thing I know, Gibbs was shoving me out of the way before he rolled up onto the hood of the car and then fell to the ground." Tim shut off the water and stood up, reaching gratefully for the paper towels Tony held out, pressing them against his face and trying to blot out the memory of Gibbs bouncing off the car.

Tony folded his arms in front of him, and nodded his head sagely. "Not your fault, Probie."

Tim looked at him in disbelief. "Gibbs dislocated his shoulder pushing me out of the way of the car! How is that not my fault?"

Tony stood and placed a hand on McGee's shoulder, leading him out of the men's room towards autopsy. "It would have been your fault if Gibbs had gotten hurt because you weren't there watching his back. But you were, Tim, standing right next to him. Right where you should be. Right where I'd _expect _you to be. Yeah, the boss got hurt. But that's not your fault. Relax - you done good."

The rare use of McGee's first name by the senior agent caught his attention, and he stared at Tony, waiting for the punchline. But Tony's face was as guileless as Tim had ever seen it, and he paused, running over the idea in his mind that maybe Tony didn't blame him. And if Tony didn't blame him, maybe it really wasn't McGee's fault. Huh.

McGee's stomach wasn't quite sure it was on board with the idea, but it was definitely worth thinking about.

~0~

The time in autopsy went fairly quickly. Ducky poked and prodded, shined lights and took x-rays. Tony and Abby kept McGee company, sharing the story of a night of clubbing they'd done early on in their friendship that had gone horribly wrong, involving a girl named Dora, a male stripper, a clown and a Doberman Pincer. Despite hearing the tale, McGee still wasn't sure how those things fit in together, but he was grateful for the laughter that kept his mind off of where Gibbs probably was at the moment.

When Ducky asked for Abby's assistance in developing the x-rays, Tim was once again left alone with Tony. There was no censure in the older man's eyes, and Tim started to believe that maybe he hadn't screwed up after all.

"Hey, Tony?"

Tony looked up from where he was playing with Ducky's instrument tray. "Yeah?"

"Don't take this the wrong way, but you're being nice to me. It's kind of freaking me out." Tim winced as he suddenly remembered Tony saying almost exactly the same words about Gibbs the night they lost Kate. He watched the other man's face darken for a fraction of a second before the shadows were forcibly chased away. The look may not have been there long, but it was enough to see that Tony recognized the words as well.

_Just when he'd started to feel better._ "Sorry," he mumbled.

He half expected a head slap, but Tony only gently patted him once on the cheek.

"Better not let Gibbs hear you say that," Tony grinned.

Tim returned the smile, appreciating Tony's effort to keep things on an even keel. "Nah, it's okay. Ducky told me even Gibbs says apologies are okay when they're between friends."

If anything, Tony's smile grew. "Then by all means, continue apologizing. In fact, you can start back from when you took my American Pie coffee mug and work your way up from there."

"Tony," Tim whined halfheartedly as the doors to autopsy opened behind him.

"Ah, Anthony. Are you misbehaving again?"

"Hey!" Tony said, sounding affronted. "Why does everyone always assume it's me?"

"Because it usually is you?" Abby offered, slipping in behind Ducky and coming to stand next to McGee, placing a hand on his shoulder.

"Oh, hey Abs," Tony said, his voice returning to a normal conversational tone. "You know, you kind of sounded a bit like Gibbs there for a second."

"Really?" Abby beamed. "Cool!"

Ducky turned his gaze towards McGee. "Your x-rays look good, Timothy. Are you feeling any better?"

McGee shot Tony a grateful look before answering the simple question. "Yeah, Ducky, I am. Much better in fact." He was pleased to see the senior field agent's head dip in acknowledgment of the underlying message.

"Excellent." Ducky's brogue caused the word to roll off his tongue. "I don't think you've suffered any permanent damage. However, I think it might be best for someone to stay with you tonight, just in case of any unforeseen complications."

Tony gave a longsuffering sigh. "Alright, McHurl. Looks like you've earned yourself a night at Casa DiNozzo, you lucky dog. Puke on my carpet and our friendship is over."

McGee knew the offer was an honest one. He also knew the older man had some place else he was itching to be. Before he could say anything, Abby chirped in.

"Nothing doing, Tony. Timmy's coming with me. I'll make sure he's tucked in all safe and sound."

Tony let out a lascivious growl at the implications, while Ducky clucked his tongue. "Now Abigail, I'm afraid he's in no shape for . . . "

"Guys!" Tim could feel the blush creeping up his neck. "That wasn't what she meant."

"Sure, Timmy," Tony teased. "Whatever you – Hey!" he yelped, when Abby punched him solidly on the arm.

"That wasn't what I meant, and you know it, mister," she told Tony. "I'm just offering to take him home and put him to bed."

Tony raised an eyebrow, appearing ready to jump in with another lewd comment, only to be cowed into submission when Abby raised her fist again.

"Besides, Tony," she continued, "we all know _you_ need to go and check on Papa Smurf."

Tony's grin ran away from him. "Please tell me I can tell him you called him that."

"Not if you want to live to see tomorrow," she threatened. "You know I can kill you without leaving any forensic evidence." She stuck her tongue out at him when he joined her verbatim on the last part of the sentence. "Well, I can."

"Nobody knows it better than I do, my mistress of the dark," Tony charmed. "McGee, you going to be good with Abby?"

"I'll be fine, Tony," McGee answered, trying not to chafe at the mother-hen attitude of the senior agent. Though it was nice to know Tony cared, he really did feel fine.

"Okay, then, kids, I'm out of here. See you all in the morning."

McGee watched him depart, suddenly realizing sometimes Tony really did seem an awful lot like Gibbs. A nicer Gibbs, definitely, but still – the similarities were certainly there.

One of these days, he might even tell Tony that.

~0~

Despite the talk with Tony last night, McGee was still feeling some rather heavy residual guilt. He had thought about it this morning on the way into the office and decided to offer Gibbs his services as a chauffeur since the older man probably wouldn't be able to drive for a while. It was the least he could do, and it might even give him a chance to see another side to his team leader. He glanced up as Gibbs entered the bullpen, making a comment about Rule 12, and Tim noticed the arm in the sling still held a familiar white and green cup.

'_Oh, man. His coffee arm. I'm so dead."_

McGee winced as Gibbs gave him the toned down version of the glare when he asked after the Boss's shoulder. He was seriously starting to think now might be a good time to shoot himself, when Tony chimed in.

"Boy, when you blow it McGee, you blow it big."

For some reason, the words were exactly what McGee needed to hear. It snapped everything back into perspective, and he was actually grateful to Tony for once again knowing exactly what Tim needed.

"DiNozzo, it was an accident. MTAC, McGee." Gibbs ordered.

Hearing the Boss defend him didn't hurt either. "Yes, Boss," he answered, grabbing the papers sitting on his desk. He rose and turned towards Tony. "Hey, in Paris, who got stuck with the couch?"

"Me," Tony answered shortly. "We flipped a coin."

Tim caught the subtle wink Tony threw him as he passed, and smiled, knowing there was more to that story than met the eye. He looked forward to weaseling it out of Tony later on.

After all, that's what friends were for.


End file.
